Signs of Life
by TheGirlWhoLikesTooMuchStuff
Summary: You never truly live life without emotions. However Sherlock has always took it upon himself to make it seem like he didn't have any. (Character study. Better summary inside.)
**Hello. This is my first Sherlock fanfic. I literally started watching the series a few days ago and I cannot believe I haven't watched it before now.**

 **It is so ridiculously good!**

 **Anyways, this is basically a character study, about Sherlock and all his emotions. (Sometimes his lack of emotions.) Enjoy reading and tell me if you like it. Or hate it.**

* * *

Sherlock walked into Angelo's restaurant, John behind him. The feeling of the case still fresh in Sherlock's mind. He went to the window booth and slipped his coat and scarf off. John limped to the table. Sherlock's eyes hadn't left the window looking out to the street.

"22 Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it." The murder would come he knew, he would. It would only be a matter of waiting.

"He's not just going to ring the doorbell. He'd need to be mad."

"He _has_ killed four people." Sherlock watched the street. Angelo came with menus and welcomes. Sherlock half listened to Angelo go on about how he had prevented Angelo from going to jail for a murder charge. He half listened to Angelo mistakenly call John his date. He continued watching the street. His eyes scanning everybody and every car. Sherlock told John he should eat, because they would be there a while. Sherlock looked out the window some more, tapping his fingers against the table.

"People don't have arch-enemies."

Sherlock turned from the window to look at John for the first time since they entered the restaurant. "I'm sorry?"

"In real life. There are no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn't happen."

Oh. He was back on that was he? "Doesn't it?" Sherlock returned to gazing out the window. "Sounds a bit dull."

"So who did I meet?" Sherlock ignored the question and asked one of his own.

"What do _real_ people have in their… _real_ lives?"

"Friends. People they know, people they like, people they don't like. Girlfriends, boyfriends."

"Yes, well, as I was saying, dull." As if he had the time for all that nonsense.

"You don't have girlfriend, then?"

John was prying. Or he was one who enjoyed chit chat. Figures.

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area."

"Oh, right. Do you have a boyfriend?" Sherlock faced John. "Which is fine, by the way."

"I know it's fine." Where was this coming from?

"So you've got a boyfriend, then."

"No." He was quick to answer. John chuckled.

"Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like me." He cleared his throat a few times.

Sherlock was slightly baffled to why John was asking these…Oh. Was John-? No, he hadn't pegged John for being…Well, then again…

 _Awkwardness._

He could feel it filling the air around them. He could feel it enter himself, making it bloody hard for him to think.

"John, um…I think you should know I consider myself married to my work and while I'm flattered, I'm really not looking for any-"

"No," John shook his head quickly. "I'm asking you…No." He said the words a couple of times, his own awkwardness pooling into the odd situation. "I'm just saying, it's all fine."

The emotion left Sherlock as quickly as it came. He nodded, "Good. Thank you." He continued looking out the window. A taxi cab had stopped across the street…

* * *

Sherlock and John stepped through the door marked 221B. Ah, that internal pain in your chest when you've run through the streets of London in the middle of the night. It was surely an exhilarating type of pain. The two men had ran after a cab that turned out to be just a cab. No murderer.

"That was ridiculous," John breathed. They both hung their coats downstairs and leaned against the wall, catching there still lost breath. "That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done."

"And you invaded Afghanistan," Sherlock quipped. They both laughed. The laugh caused the chest to hurt more; small price to pay. John asked why they weren't at the restaurant.

"They can handle it. It was a long shot anyway." John then asked what was the point of going there in the first place. John surely was one for questioning things. Perhaps that was a good quality. "Just passing the time. And proving a point."

"What point?"

"You." He called out to Mrs. Hudson telling her that John would take the room upstairs.

"Says who?" There were those questions again.

"Says the man at the door." And as if on cue there was a knock at the door. Angelo was there with John's cane. John took his cane from the man surprised. Sherlock smiled.

Then Mrs. Hudson came into the room, seemingly upset. "Upstairs." Sherlock thought for a moment. Upstairs? What was upstairs…his belongings, the pink case, his experiments, the-

The pink case. Evidence. Police evidence. The police. He took the stairs two at a time.

He opened the door to his flat. Lestrade was sitting in _his_ chair. "What are you doing?" Detectives and officers were in the different rooms, doing God knows what, and looking for God knows what.

 _Frustration._

They had broken into his flat to get the evidence. But evidently, it is not breaking in when they pull a phony drugs-bust. John at first found the insinuation to be ridiculous, but Sherlock's look so made him think otherwise.

"No."

"What?"

"You?"

"Shut up!" He went back to arguing the point.

And then there was Anderson who volunteered to help with the bust. And now that he looked around at the officers, none of them were on the drug squad. They all had volunteered. Sally was asking about the jar of human eyes.

"It's an experiment." He started pacing. His frustration growing every passing second that this absurdity went on. "I'm clean!" he protested.

The conversation between him and Lestrade, led to finding out that Jennifer Wilson wrote down her daughter's name: Rachel. Anderson said that the pink case was supposed to be in the hands of the murderer but it was instead in the hands of everyone's favorite psychopath.

Sherlock turned on his heels. "I'm not a psychopath, I'm high-functioning sociopath. Do your research." Turned out that Rachel was Jennifer's still born daughter.

Wait…? Why write the name of her daughter? She would be over that sort of thing by now, right? Anderson made a comment that Sherlock disregarded; John was theorizing about the murderer; Sherlock walked in small circles trying to think.

She was trying to tell them something. He knew it; he could feel it. But he couldn't concentrate on one line of thought. There was too much happening. And oh God, he couldn't think. Frustration building to dangerous levels.

Mrs. Hudson said there was a taxi for him; he didn't order a taxi. Lestrade's gaze penetrated him; Anderson with his ever smug expression; Sally with her men's deodorant; the movement of the "drug squad"; it was all too much. He rubbed his temples trying to sooth the heightened senses down, but it wasn't working. Everyone was moving. It was too loud, too much. He snapped.

"Shut up, everybody! Shut up! Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think. Anderson face the other way. You're putting me off." Anderson objected, of course, but he was ordered to, so he did. Everything stilled, everything was calm. He could finally think; no more frustration.

* * *

The ambulance doctors kept putting an orange blanket around his shoulders. He didn't understand why. It was most defiantly not to make a fashion statement. Lestrade came up to him. "Why have I got this blanket? They keep putting this blanket on me."

"It's for shock."

"I'm not in shock," he protested. If he was in shock, he would be the first to know, and of present time he was not in shock. The cabbie who had been shot should have been the one in shock, not him. Sure the bullet whizzed by him at great speeds, but it didn't hit him. Not even a graze.

Speaking of the shot cabbie, who was behind the murders…

"So, the shooter-no sign?" According to Lestrade, no. And also according to Lestrade they had nothing to go on with the shooter. Well, that wasn't true.

"The bullet they just dug out of the wall was from a handgun. A kill shot over that distance, from that kind of weapon, that's a crack shot, we're looking for. But not just a marksman, a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatized to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service and…" Sherlock turned his head. John was standing behind the "Do Not Cross" tape. "Nerves of steel…"

Sherlock's eyebrows knitted together.

 _Realization._

A feeling he was accustomed to; after all he was a consulting detective. But never before had he had the realization that someone so close to him had saved his life.

Heh. Dr. Watson seemed to prove himself to be an ally in this world of so few people who could be trusted. Sherlock blinked.

"Actually, you know what? Ignore me."

"Sorry?" Lestrade asked confused.

"Ignore all of that. It's just the…shock talking." He walked away from the ambulance. Lestrade wasn't letting him go that easily, claiming he still had questions. "Oh, what now? I'm in shock-look, I've got a blanket." Lestrade heed and hawed for a moment but then let him go.

Sherlock threw the blanket away.

The feeling of realizing that it had been John who had saved him, waded away as they walked away, speaking about the events of the evening. Perhaps having John around would be better than Sherlock had originally thought. Perhaps he would enjoy the company. Perhaps he wasn't a total sociopath. Perhaps…him and John might be friends.

 _Hope._

* * *

 **Not long, I know. Obviously this is set during "The Study in Pink" and I decided to only take prime moments from an episode and kind of expand upon it. Mainly it will be from Sherlock's perspective and mainly it will focus on whatever emotion or feeling Sherlock is having at that given time.**

 **I will probably get more into as the chapters continue; right now I just wanted to write the first chapter.**

 **Reviews are welcomed. Thanks, bye. ;)**


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